


Paper Faces on Parade

by Jillypups



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I mean come on right, JUST POST IT JILLYPUPS, Oh Jon and Aegon are brothers, PWP, Smut, but also in new orleans?, i see this taking place at cheekwood manor, i've had so much iced tea, idk - Freeform, jazz band, jazz hands too, ok, what else would it be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6842815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/pseuds/Jillypups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://jillypups.tumblr.com/post/144322698118/paper-faces-on-parade-jonsansa-for">Picset</a><br/>From the Valar-Morekinks round 4.0 Stick 'em with the pointy end.</p><p>Jon/Sansa wall sex: They don't make it to the bedroom (can even be semi-public if they don't make it into their apartment/chambers or whatever!!) </p><p>Six months after Sansa broke up with Aegon after falling for his brother Jon (and after they maybe took things a step too far), she runs into Jon at Aegon's masquerade ball 30th birthday party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Faces on Parade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bex_xo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bex_xo/gifts), [AliceInNeverNeverLand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInNeverNeverLand/gifts).



“What are you even doing here,” Sansa says, arms folded against the emerald-green corseted bodice of her costume.

If she wasn’t uncomfortable before, she certainly is now, standing face to face with Jon.

Well, standing mask to mask.

“I was invited,” he says, beleaguered to her bitter.

“Of course you were,” Sansa sighs with halfhearted exasperation. “Aegon’s your brother; of _course_ you’d be invited to his birthday party. I meant what are you doing _here_ ,” she says, gesturing back and forth between their bodies, a wild volley of black opera gloves. “Out here with me.”

Because it’s not like she’s dawdling by the bar or the band or even in line for one of the ladies’ rooms here at the old mansion-turned-event center. He’s managed to corner her in the quiet, dark courtyard garden of all places, soft-burble mossy fountains and low hanging willow trees blotting out some of the light from the floor to ceiling ballroom windows.

She came for fresh air and some quiet time to rethink a few of her past life choices, namely coming to this damned thing in the first place. And now here’s the one man she can’t seem to escape even in her thoughts, standing in front of her with his hands in his pockets, bowtie undone and hanging down from under his starched collar. It’s always one subtle little rebellion with him when it comes to authority in any shape or form. Jon’s calling card. Sansa wishes she could steal it from him.

He sighs, lifts a hand to scratch his face just under the nondescript black mask, returns it to his pocket.

“It’s a masquerade ball, San, you’re not supposed to know who or where _any_ one is,” he retorts.

She sighs as well, momentarily stymied by that fact considering they’re practically lost in a sea of identically dressed people; black tie for men with masks to match like Jon is now, ladies in red or black or both, hideous attempts at modern harlequin or worse, the upper crust version of Slutty Insert-Character-Here costumes that are typically reserved for college campuses on Halloween. Not that she’s much better with her corseted breasts cinched together and pushed up and out, with feathers stuck to her skin in provocative swirls with spray-adhesive, with the high slit up the side of her full skirt satin gown.

 _It’s for Aegon, right?_ Margaery said two weeks ago when Sansa caved and bought the getup.

 _Of course,_ she murmured. _I told him it would be a surprise and that he’d have to find me._

_Well let’s make sure you’re worth finding, shall we?_

She’s no better than the rest of them and she knows it.

He gazes down the length of her, studious and appreciative as always from him, never lascivious even when he’s got a hungry look in his eyes. “So what are you supposed to be, anyways? The feathers, the color, I’m guessing some kind of bird?”

She almost laughs, it’s just that close to boyish and earnest and actually interested, this most painful of small talks.

“It’s supposed to be a peacock. See?” she points to one of the feathers on her collarbone, spins on her toes to let the green of her dress fan out.

“I’m sure Aegon loved it when he saw you. ‘Vanity, thy name is,’ and all that crap.”

“He hasn’t seen me yet,” she murmurs, lifting her eyes to his. “Only you. Shock of all shockers.”

And then she thinks of the brief flicker of time they had together, time best defined with simple words like hot and heavy, primal words like want and need and hunger, softer things she _knew_ they were on the verge of, things like linger and look and taste, things like _know,_ things like love. She could recognize _him_ sure enough, even if she wore a blindfold instead of a mask. Hell, she can smell the man of him from here, layers of soap and aftershave and the faint musk of cologne, even with the thick humidity and the faint aquarium waft coming from the fountains.

Sansa lifts her chin and he does the same, half painted in willow-dappled indoor light, half drowned in the ink of a moonless spring evening, two warring chess pieces on a complicated and unfair board.

“You’re telling me you didn’t recognize me?”

Jon huffs and rolls his eyes, half turns away from her as he takes a step away, back towards the ballroom full of boozy laughter and jazz band renditions of pop songs. Her heart pounds, pulse a panic at the thought that he’s walking away again. _It’s for Aegon, right?_

_No._

No, it wasn’t, and she can be as defensive as she wants with him, but it doesn’t erase the fact that the second Jon slipped outside and she saw it was him, her heart leapt like a gazelle, that she very nearly ran to him as quick as one.

“Of course I recognized you,” he mutters, dress shoes scraping on the damp brick beneath their feet as he turns back towards her, though his eyes are downcast, grey shadowed to black from his mask and the late hour. “Even with that green dye in your hair, I recognized you from across the room.”

“So did I,” she murmurs without thinking, and she wishes she had accepted another glass of champagne before she came outside, not that she isn’t fizzing over as it is, half-drunk from the lightheaded way she always feels during confrontation, no matter how polite. “I think I have you memorized.”

“Christ, Sansa,” he says, shaking his head. He inhales sharply as if for self-mastery. “You can’t just- no, you know what, I should go. It’s my mistake for coming out here to begin with,” he says, shuffling through his options before settling on yet another bail-out, and he’s already walking back towards the French doors, just like that.

“Yeah, you _do_ that, Jon,” she says, hugging herself and hating how _wavering_ she sounds. “Walking away was always kind of your thing, wasn’t it?”

He spins on his heel and strides back towards her, so quickly her arms drop and she takes a step backwards, stumbling a bit when the heel of her shoe catches on the sunken-in old mortar between hundred year old bricks. Jon grasps her by the wrist and tugs her back to solid ground, but when she’s steady once more he lets go of her.

“And sneaking around was always yours.”

“You sneaked around just as much as I did, Jon, maybe even more so towards the end, even after we talked about it! I wanted to tell him and just come clean, but no, you suddenly declared it all a big pile of lies and walked away.”

“I was sick of lying. Quite frankly, I was sick of being your dirty little secret, San, and in the end that’s what I was. Your boyfriend’s brother, the naughty little conquest to write about in your diary, right?”

“How _dare_ you say that after everything! You’re the one who ruined it all, you’re the one who walked away,” she spits out, words gritted and bitter like coffee grounds.

“It was wrong, Sansa. We never should have done it.”

“Yes, it was wrong, I knew it then and I know it now, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. Just because we messed up in the beginning doesn’t mean what we started didn’t deserve a chance. All we needed to do was come clean and do our penance, but no, you washed your hands of it. Washed your hands of _me_ like I was garbage. You talk about dirty little secret, Jon, but you treated me like I was _trash._ ”

It started off as nearly a shout but it ends on a whisper, a near-sob that makes her face contort into an ugly grimace, and she hugs herself again as she turns away from him, angry that she’s still so emotional over someone who hasn’t given her the time of day in half a year.

She sniffles and widens her eyes, tips her head back to stare up at the black on black boughs of trees and the three story high eaves of the old house, wills the tears to dry before they fall and ruin her makeup.

“San, come on, it wasn’t like that,” Jon murmurs from behind her, low voice low, heavy and sad, a willow tree made of words.

She wrenches away from his touch when he tries to rest a hand on her near-naked shoulder, can feel one of the sprayed on feathers tear off her skin a bit from the roughness of her withdrawal.

“It sure feels like it, I don’t care what you say.”

She glances at him over her shoulder, catches him staring at her skin laid bare from the high twisting updo of her hair.

“He fell for you so hard,” Jon says again, to one of the feathers on her back maybe, for all he does not lift his gaze to her. He exhales a laugh through his nose, shakes his head as he lifts a finger, carefully, and presses the fine down of a barbule back into place on her shoulder blade.

“I know he did. He wasn’t the only one, in the beginning.”

“Aegon and Sansa, happily ever after,” he says. Now they both sound bitter. “He talked about you constantly, how you two met and how he couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. How clever and smart you were, how kind and gorgeous with your big blue eyes and your long red hair,” he whispers, his thumb running along the undulation of the entire feather, down to the blue-green eye where it curlicues at the nape of her neck.

Her skin pebbles under his touch and Sansa suppresses a moan. It is the same damned touch he painted her with the last time they met, as lovely as she’s dreamed it, as maddening as she’s remembered with her hand between her legs in the middle of the night. It makes it nearly impossible to focus on his words.

“I should never have kissed you. I should have just left you alone. I mean, after all, six months after you two broke up, here you are again at his birthday party. As big a sign as I ever needed.”

His hand lifts off from her shoulder like a dragonfly and the spell is broken. Sansa exhales a stuttering breath, blinks, frowns. Shakes her head and turns to face him. _Sign of what?_

“Why would you say that?”

Jon sighs, glances away and returns his hands to his pockets.

“If I hadn’t interfered, none of it would have happened, I wouldn’t have come between you two and we never would have broken his heart.”

Sansa’s jaw drops.

“ _What_?”

“What?” he echoes with a confused frown.

“Look, we shouldn’t have kept talking and hanging out and we definitely shouldn’t have kissed, but how you can _stand_ there and talk to me about Aegon’s broken heart while you ignore mine?”

She is incredulous, so hot from temper and fluster and pain that she is practically breathless, all laced up in whalebone and coutil, and she fans at her face as she paces the small courtyard, into the pools of indoor light bleeding through the windows, out of it into the slink and lurk of garden shadow.

“San-”

“No, don’t ‘San’ me like we’re still thick as thieves, like you haven’t dropped off the face of the planet for half a year,” she snaps, stalking towards him, strong on the sharp points of her stilettos and just as dangerous as their namesake. “You tell me you’re crazy about me and then when I actually break up with him you’re gone. New phone number, new man, huh?”

“He’s my _brother,_ Sansa! We broke his heart, even though he didn’t know it was me. How the hell am I supposed to be around you when I’m picking up all the Aegon pieces?”

“Oh, I see! No time for the stupid girl who actually fell for you now that the naughty sneaking around part is taken out of the equation? Was that it?”

“For someone who fell so damned hard for me, you sure seem to get back on your feet pretty quickly, seeing as you’re here on his arm again.”

Jon seethes as he storms away from her, raking his fingers through the tied back tousle of his hair, pulling free one tumble that hangs over the edge of his mask.

“Hey!” she snaps, turning around and stalking towards his back, and she wrenches him around with a fistful of his tuxedo jacket, and he glares at her from behind his mask, _and isn’t that a sort of poetry_ , she thinks. “You want to know why I’m really here? You want to know why I accepted his invitation?”

He is angry too, now. Angry and hurt. _Good,_ she thinks. _Welcome to my world._

“Yeah, San, I’d _love_ to know why. Because you talked a big fucking game yourself back then, about falling for me and being head over heels and all that flowery bullshit, and then here you are at his birthday party dressed to kill and without a care in the world. So yeah, you want to talk broken hearts? Then let’s talk about mine.”

“I said yes to him because of _you,_ Jon,” she shouts, and now the tears well up, stinging hot from the warm air and the heat of her mask. “Because I was hoping _you’d_ be here. I got all dressed up hoping I’d see you, hoping you’d see _me_ and feel like an idiot for walking away.”

He looks like he’s been slapped, and she’s thinking that’s probably a good thing since her right hand is almost itching to haul off and smack him, she is so beyond upset. They stand there in the half and half of light and shadow, glamour and earth, champagne twinkle and the lazy _shush_ of jasmine-soaked breezes through willow trees. Finally he speaks.

“Well, you got your wish,” he murmurs.

“If I _really_ got my wish, then you’d—”

The French doors crack open and now along with the light there’s the immediate burst of noise, music and conversation and laughter, glasses clinking and the rustle and bustle of so many bodies moving together. Two guests come trip-traipsing out, mid-giggle and already smoking cigarettes that hang from the man’s mouth and the woman’s liquor-loose fingers.

“Oh my god, I am _so_ drunk,” the girl cackles, her voice muffled from outside noises and the blanket of quiet the tree cover offers.

“You and me both, sister,” the man laughs, staggering almost as much as she is as they pass a bottle of champagne back and forth.

Wordlessly Jon takes Sansa by the hand, laces their fingers with the push of his between hers and pulls her further from the long stretch of ballroom windows, back towards a dark wall of the house that runs perpendicular to where the party is, here where the tree cover almost blocks out the glow of chandelier light. Her heart is still pounding from their altercation, and despite the warmth and closeness of the air under the foliage, Sansa shivers.

“Where the fuck’s an ashtray?”

“Just flick it in the fountain and let’s go back’n dance.”

“No, wait, Eggin tol’ me to find her. Ugh, whassername.”

“Shhh,” Jon whispers as he turns her around so he’s the buffer between  her and the merrymakers, and he glances over his shoulder to where Aegon’s friends are still smoking, their mission to find her apparently already forgotten. He turns back to look at her.

Sansa nods, blinking several times until her eyes adjust to the new depth of darkness, and they stand there in silence and gaze at each other, immobile until suddenly Jon grins, that hint of naughty little boy in the usual so-serious of him that she fell for all those months ago. She breathes out a laugh and he shushes her again, walks her further into the muzzy shadows until her back is pressed up against the cool limestone and the wooden shutter of one of the dark windows.

“S-Sansa!” the girl hiccups out, trying to stand up straight in her gold dress and leopard print face mask. “Sansa, th’birthday boy’s looking for you! Says he wantsa make a toast. Oh my god, toast sounds so good, I’m so fucking hungry.”

 Sansa’s eyes widen as she and Jon stare at each other, and he’s got a pained look on his face, easy enough to see even here where it’s twilight-dark. She shakes her head, and he seems to let go of a breath of relief, and he smiles when she rests a hand on his chest.

“So you two aren’t back together?” he whispers.

“No!” she hisses. “I haven’t been with _anybody_ since I broke up with him for you.”

“Same here.”

Hearts sing to hear it, shooting stars streak the sky, worlds collide as Sansa smiles. Her gloved fingertips are slippery against the sheen of his tuxedo jacket, and to gain purchase she closes her fist around his shawl lapel and pulls him towards her.

“You’re all I ever wanted, Jon.”

“Back to sneaking around, are you,” he murmurs, though it doesn’t stop him from stepping into her.

“You’re the one who pulled me back here,” she whispers, head tilting and eyes closing as he lifts a hand to trace her collarbone.

“Because I didn’t want to be interrupted,” he says, hand lifting off of her chest – _no, no_ , _no_ – only to alight on her upper arm where he runs the back of his knuckles down to the edge of her opera glove – _yes, yes, yes._

“Me neither.”

“And I don’t want you to go.”

“Me neither,” she whispers, sliding her hand up his lapel to the back of his neck, and it’s just the slightest of pressures she gives him before his head bows over her.

“Good.”

Sansa sighs out when he lands a scruff-rough kiss to the place where her neck meets shoulder, and then her other hand is around his neck to hold him in place, to make sure he can’t walk away again.

But he doesn’t even try.

He does move himself to action, though, slow at first as he kisses his way up her throat to her jaw, his hands sliding around her feathered corset to the small of her cinched in back, and then he walks into her, a good firm press of Sansa between the cool hard of stone and the pliant warmth of him. She cups his face and draws him away from her, rights her head to gaze at him for a flicker of an instant before she closes her eyes and kisses him, and his mouth is already open against hers, tongue already a slide and sweep and search, a quick hungry dart against hers before the kiss closes and reopens, closes and reopens, hotter and hungrier and deeper with each repetition, with each new taste of him that is even more delicious than the first.

_The first._

Sansa’s thoughts buzz and swim and drown while sweet aching memory shoots up like the bright blossom of a rocket, memories of the only other time Jon kissed her, just as full of wanting as this one though there is none of that bittersweet pain there was the first time. The first time that was supposed to be a last time, until now, nownownow where there is no bitter anymore, where she could sup herself to death on all the rich sweetness.

The two drunks on the other side of the trees and fountains chatter away, lighters flick as fresh cigarettes are lit, and while she’s always been somewhat adverse to the smell of them this time she’s utterly unaware of any smell other than Jon. She can breathe as deeply as she wants without disruption, though as much as she’d like to make noise, to say his name and moan for more than just kisses, she can’t.

But that doesn’t completely strip her of self-advocacy, here. Sansa slides her hands from his jawline to his shoulders, down his chest to the buttons of his jacket, and with two pinches and snaps of her fingers it’s undone, and still he kisses her and kisses her and kisses her as she wrenches his white button-down and undershirt out of his waistband so she can feel his skin. He hums in his throat when she slides her hands under them and his suspenders, against his warm bare skin around to his back, but she’s frowning and miffed because her gloves are keeping her from feeling him. Jon breaks the kiss when she withdraws and tries to tug one of them off.

“Keep them on,” he whispers in her ear, so quietly she can barely make out the words, so light-as-a-feather quiet it makes her shudder, and not just because of the warmth of his breath against her ear, but because of what he says and what he might mean.

“Oh god, Jon,” she says, winding her arms around his neck.

“But _these_ fucking things can go,” he mutters.

She suppresses a gasp when he pulls off the feathers stuck to her skin across her chest, gooseflesh tickling her skin in their sudden absence, in the sudden gentle soft slide of his hands across the high swells of her confined breasts, and he kisses the tops of both of them while his hands slide from her ribs to her waist to her hips. It doesn’t take him long to discover the high cut in her gown, and if he hummed before he damn near growls now, hand disappearing inside it as he finds her, and he presses his palm against her skin as he grabs the back of her thigh and draws it up and out of her gown. Sansa hitches it up on his hip, easy to do now that her heels bring her to his same height, and she drags him closer-closer, pins herself to the wall like a mounted butterfly in its shadowbox.

“Is this even a good idea,” he whispers against her skin, his own hand betraying his blip of caution as it slides down her naked hamstring to her ass, and when he finds she’s only wearing a thong – or perhaps he thinks she’s wearing nothing, her cheeks are that bare – he groans.

“The old you would probably say no,” she whispers.

“Yeah, well, fuck that guy,” he says against her mouth before he kisses her.

Sansa lowers a hand from his shoulder and reaches for the waistband of his slacks, digs her fingers in and gives a good, sharp, tug.

“I’d rather fuck you,” she says, and when he gutters out a stuttered breath she swallows it whole.

There’s no belt buckle to be undone or to jingle and give them away, and so by the time they both of them have him free there’s nothing much more to be done than for Jon to drag her dress out of the way, so that both of her legs are free from the layers of skirts thanks to the high cut in it. He lets slip a quiet grunt and hauls her up in his arms, hands under her thighs, and even though the limestone scuffs the skin on her shoulder blades she doesn’t care, because she’s got her legs around him and her heels digging into the backs of his legs, can feel the smooth hard thrust of him against the thin silk of her panties.

“Are you sure,” he whispers, ridiculous man hovering on the brink of what they both want so clearly, but then again hesitation has been his downfall in the past.

One gloved hand grips the corner of the house as she squeezes her thighs and the other lowers to wrap around his cock and push it down, and he inhales sharply when she uses it to nudge her panties to the side, exhales in a rush when she rocks her hips up and guides him inside.

“Yes, Jon,” she whimpers when he groans, when he pushes his hips forward, when he seats himself fully inside her where she squeezes herself around him to remind him to _never_ leave her again. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Fuck,” he whispers, and then fuck is what he does.

Somewhere in the process of all of this the drunk couple have left, and so when his thrusts become more rhythmic and confident in their seclusion, Sansa finds she doesn’t care either, and so her whines and whimpers roll themselves out into moans, higher gasps when he shifts and strokes into her a different way, a good sharp _Jon!_ when he drops his head and nips the top of her breast. He likes that, she can tell, because he does it again, and when he sucks a kiss onto her throat below her ear he nips her there too, holds onto her with his teeth for a long, tantalizing moment as she _oh-oh-ohs_ with her head tipped back against the wall.

They are lost in each other even though they can barely feel each other save for this one naked and true connection, here where she’s fully clothed and can’t even feel him with her hands, here where her bare legs can feel the rub of his suspenders beneath his open dinner jacket but can’t feel him. It’s strange and richly erotic, all this touching and no feeling, all this seeing where half his face is obscured behind his mask. It is beyond arousing, knowing there is an entire world just a few feet away that has no idea what they’re doing, that has no idea what wonderful, lovely things he’s doing to her, each time he draws his hips back and then forward and up. Sansa shudders.

“Oh my god,” she pants out, hands tugging in his hair as she fists it, and the action of it rubs the tie in his mask loose until it slips, and then she tears it away to see him in full, and it is like being struck by lightning, the way he looks at her, the way she can see now even here in the dark.

“There you are, Jon,” she moans, and he hums again when she kisses him.

“Let me see you, Sansa,” he says, hair in his eyes as he gazes at her, eyes dark from sex and from shadow though still they beg her in earnest.

She drags her own mask off and flings it down with his, feels the stone snag her hair as she leans against the house and cups his face in her hands.

“There she is,” he says, pushing into her again, pausing where he’s high and thick inside her and she’s all filled up. “There’s my girl,” he says, voice punctuated with the rhythm he’s setting, and she’s moaning _Yes_ and moaning his name when the doors crack open and the courtyard is once more flooded with the sounds of a fifty thousand dollar party.

“Sansa?”

They stop moving with one another though Jon is still buried inside her, and in unison they both turn towards the ballroom, and if she felt all weak and trembly before, she feels doubly so now.

Because it’s Aegon, dressed all in white with a mask to match, a perfect and predictable contrast to all the other men, though Sansa has known for a while now that if you have to insist on standing out in a crowd then you really don't, not on the inside.

“Are you sure she’s out here?” he says to the uniformed wait staff standing beside him.

“I swear, sir, I offered her another glass of champagne and she declined, told me she was coming out here for some fresh air instead.”

“Oh my god,” she whispers breathlessly, half squirming as she lowers one of her legs from Jon’s grasp and her foot back to the ground.

“Shhh, he can’t see us,” Jon murmurs, tightening the grip he has on her other thigh as he turns back towards her.

Without a flag in arousal or confidence Jon slowly withdraws from her, and if she thinks he’s going to let her go and step back she is _wrong,_ because instead he simply pushes back into her again, agonizingly, spine-arching slow now, so much so her back lifts off the wall so she can follow him when he pulls out again.

“Sansa, are you out here?” Aegon says, and she can hear his footsteps on the courtyard as he walks first to one length of the little paved garden and then to the other, towards them.

Sansa’s entire body clenches, she’s that terrified, but then Jon drops kiss after kiss onto her chest, and now that he's got one hand free he uses it, and uses it well. She swallows a gasp when he licks his thumb and lowers his hand, rubs at her with it just above where they're still joined until her muscles relax and her hips bob forward.

"He isn't yours anymore," Jon whispers low and slow in her ear, pace to match his own as he slides inside her again and again, so slow she thinks of words like honey and taffy and agony.

"No, he isn't," she murmurs. "He never was."

"But _I_ am now."

"Yes," she whispers, so quietly she isn't sure she's even saying it out loud, and her head drops forward to rest on his shoulder, upper back curved like the bowl of a spoon above her corset as she folds over him. "You always were."

"So _forget_ him and come for me, Sansa. Come for me."

Quiet words, no louder than breezes through a willow bough, but no less powerful because of it.

In the end he has to cup his hand over her mouth, once he gets her going to the point that there's no worry the orgasm will slide back down before cresting over, and she moans against his palm as her body shudders. He still thrusts into her, though not nearly as slow and self-mastered as before, head tipped against hers as he breathes in time to each pulse of her. She claws uselessly at his shoulders with her gloved fingers when she comes, the one leg she's standing on trembling from the weight of such a lovely thing, and then it's over, one final slick thrust before he grits out her name and then pants through clenched jaws, the hand under her thigh a rigid-fingered sweetly painful squeeze as he breathes, breathes, breathes.

“That was, oh, god, Jon, that was so good,” Sansa whispers, mossy-burble quiet and just as fluid.

"Hello? Is there someone there?" Aegon says, voice growing louder as do his footsteps.

She is so buttery and warm and loose, so wonderfully undone that she doesn't care, and she's tipping her face towards the light and the man's shape looming towards them, and she's about to say _Yes it's me, and it's Jon, and he just loved me,_ but then Jon moves.

In an instant he pulls out of her completely, leaving her so suddenly and achingly empty that she very nearly cries out because it's happening all over again, Jon's off and sailing away on a sharp gust of honor. She stands there with weak knees and her hands pressed to the house behind her, watches as he does not turn tail and flee but adjusts and zips himself up. Quickly he squats down, stands with their masks in hand.

"Shhh," he murmurs again, eyes on hers as he ties her mask back in place, and he smiles at her frown, nods and kisses her as he tightens the bow at the back of her head. "I've got you, all right?"

"Mmhmm," she murmurs, understanding now as she helps him with his own mask.

"Here," he says, shaking out the handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and he helps himself when she tilts her head in bemusement.

Jon sinks his hand into the cut of her gown again, drags the linen square up between her thighs, kisses her shoulder again as he tucks it inside her wet panties, and to let him know it's secure she squeezes her legs around him, and it makes her giggle and makes him grunt out a laugh, and that's how Aegon finds them.

"Sansa, is that- oh, shit, I'm sorry, man, I didn’t realize anyone was- well, you know," he says.

“Fuck,” she whispers, shaking hand brushing across her forehead and hovering there in case the mask isn’t enough.

"Don’t worry about it, we were just leaving," Jon says as he still faces her, all amusement though his shoulders tense and hitch up.

But he speaks in a voice lower than normal as he takes his time withdrawing his hand from inside her dress, and her heart beats like wings, and it feels like she could take flight she’s so lightheaded from him, from nearly being caught before, from being caught now even though Aegon has no idea who they are or exactly what he’s walked in on.

The man of the hour chuckles. "Lucky guy," he says.

He takes a couple of steps back from them when Jon takes Sansa by the hand and pulls her behind him towards the ballroom, and even though Jon keeps his head down he lowers his shoulders and straightens his spine.

"No, you're the man of honor tonight. You're the one with all the luck, right?" and Jon goes so far and so bold as to clap his own brother on the hand, the same one that smells of sex and Sansa. _Sansasex,_ she thinks with a giggle behind her glove.

"I hope so, if I can just find my girl."

“Come on, baby, let’s get out of this guy’s way,” Jon says, and maybe it’s that reckless grin of his that makes him so unrecognizable, even to his own brother.

She bows her head as they hurry past, cheeks flaming from behind her mask, chest just as flushed from love and sweat and spring evening air. Aegon turns as he watches them reenter the party but she never really was his girl, not even then and certainly not now where he doesn’t even see that it’s her.

“Thanks for coming, you two! Have a great night.”

And so when they're finally back in the dancing swelter and bounce of a busy dance floor, Sansa feels free, and Jon bursts out laughing.

“If only he knew, huh?” he says, face lit up and flushed like hers, and Sansa realizes he feels as free as she does. She supposes a good cleansing argument and rock solid orgasm can do that to a man just as deliciously as it can a woman.

"Where should we go now?" she has to nearly shout as they flee the scene hand in hand.

"Home," Jon says with a masked grin over his shoulder, their gazes a struck-match-flash of heat that makes her shiver even though her corset slides around her body now from so much sweat.

“Together?”

Jon turns to face her as he walks backwards through the crowd, his untucked shirt a mess, and he pulls her against his chest so they’re half dancing and half escaping with her arms wound around his shoulders and his hands on her hips.

“Of course together.”

 


End file.
